


maybe winter, maybe winter

by crackthesky



Series: secret home i made and found [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Multi, Self-Indulgent, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackthesky/pseuds/crackthesky
Summary: winter comes with the type of cold that taps into your bones, freezes the marrow of you solid.  but with winter, so too comes your Witcher.  and on a chill winter night, you watch your Witcher mend.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: secret home i made and found [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674910
Comments: 15
Kudos: 104





	maybe winter, maybe winter

You aren’t sure what wakes you.

It could be the soft crackle of the fire, the logs snapping like little bones under the flames’ teeth, a gritted warning to the chiming icicles still dripping from your roof. In the deep clutch of winter, the fire blazes bright against the blurred haze of the drifting snow, against the wicked fingers of the frostbitten wind. It spits and sputters in the velvet dark of the night. It could be that which wakes you. 

More likely, though, what wakes you is the empty space beside you. Hazily, you realize you’ve crept into the middle of the bed in Geralt’s absence. The warmth he’s left in his wake is like the sun barely peeking through clouds, just a hint of heat. You shift. The blankets - old, worn things, but still thick enough to bundle over you while you sleep, enough to keep winter’s chill touch at bay - have been carefully tucked in around you. 

You roll over and cushion your head against your arm. The firelight burnishes Geralt into something otherworldly, the edge of a dream, the light playing over his skin and his scars like a lover’s touch. It colors him soft orange and gold, and you think of the witch-hazel that heralds his return to you, how the spidery sunrise petals glow bright against the soft gleam of the frost. You drink him in.

He’s sewing, you realize, the needle an unerring blade in his deft fingers. Small, tight stitches, ones that will hold steadfast even against his bulk. There’s a few finished shirts folded neatly on a nearby stool. He works steadily on the shirt he’s mending, and as the fabric flutters, you get a glimpse of the garment draped over his knee. 

It’s one of your dresses. You’d caught it on a mislaid nail not long ago, torn a rip in it like ice splitting on the river. The stitches are carefully delicate, the thread almost an exact match for the fabric. The ache catches in your ribs, tucks careful into the gaps of the bones.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur.

Those golden eyes flash to you. “No.” The needle jabs through the fabric.

You hum. He sleeps better in the winter, but there is no true cure for the thoughts that prick him awake. 

“Can I stay up with you?”

“You should sleep.”

“I will,” you say, because sleep is still tugging at you, still swirling like snowflakes across your skin. “I like being in the quiet with you.”

And it is quiet. Not silent, for sounds spill through your home: the fire pops and crackles; the winter wind scratches at your shuttered windows with sharp, bitter teeth; the carved wooden walls of your house creak and moan as they settle. It does not diminish the hush draped over the two of you, a soft cotton shroud to block out the sounds of the outside world. 

You stay curled beneath the blankets as Geralt works. Even such a small movement makes his muscles shift beneath his skin, the play of them entrancing. 

The window pane rattles as the wind rises to a howl. The chill seeps through the glass, settles over you like a layer of frost. You finally slip from bed. You pad to Geralt, the floorboards frigid beneath your toes, and drape yourself over his back.

He grunts, but he turns to you when you place a finger under his chin. You lay a gentle kiss on his lips. He chases you as you pull away, and you laugh low and sweet as you return to him. It’s mellow and tender, and the two of you melt into each other for a moment.

You pull back but stay draped against him, feel the rise and fall of his breath as his broad back expands under you. Geralt smoothes out the fabric he’d crinkled under his fingertips and picks up the needle once more.

You watch. The needle gleams like moonlight, the same silver sheen of his sword, and it flickers like water, flashes like lightning as it pierces the fabric. 

“Who taught you?” you ask, half-muffled by his frostbite hair. 

Geralt grunts. 

You let the hush fall again, watch him sew a few more stitches, and say: “Will you teach me?”

His hands fall still.

“You don’t have to,” you say, nosing against the shell of his ear. 

Geralt starts his work again, pierces the silver needle through the soft, worn fabric of the shirt like it’s the hide of a beast. Then he sighs and sets the mending aside. You slide into the open cradle of his arms, let him tuck his broad frame around you like a shield. 

“Do you know the basics?” he asks.

“No.”

Zy is the one who mends. She laughs each time you bring her a torn shirt or skirt, the sound high and fluting, and so you have never bothered to learn.

Geralt sighs, the wind of it stirring the hair at the nape of your neck. “How you survive is beyond me at times.”

“Pure spite, usually.”

He huffs. “Come here.”

“I am here,” you say, leaning up to press a kiss against the carved marble of his jaw. 

He grunts and wraps a large hand around your wrist. He tucks the shirt into your grasp and pricks the needle through fabric. 

Geralt leads you through the stitches without many words. It’s for the best; hazy with sleep, they will likely slip your mind. He nudges you here and there, guides you back into smaller stitches. The fire’s warmth licks over you. When you reach the end of the rip, he presses a kiss against your neck and retrieves his mending.

“It’s all crooked,” you say, tracing a finger down the wobbly line of it. “I should have gotten a scrap for this. Show me how to take them out?”

“Leave it.”

“Geralt, it looks like a child mended your shirt.”

“No,” he says. He runs a gentle finger over the repaired tear. “It looks like you did.” 

You go still.

Unperturbed, Geralt folds the shirt and tucks it away. He waits. You reach out for the final shirt. He presses a kiss against the curve of your spine as you lean forward, his lips burning through your shift. The wind howls, but it is not the raging winter of a few weeks ago.

“The crocuses will come soon,” you murmur. You had loved crocuses once, the way the verdant stems pushed through dirt and snow alike to unfold gloriously bright, deep plum with just a touch of golden stamen. You love them still, you suppose, but to gain them means to lose him again.

You recline back into the cradle of Geralt’s arms. He grunts, but simply shifts so he can continue to sew with you tucked into him. You lean up, press your lips against the edge of his jaw, soft against the hard line of him. “The snow’s starting to melt.”

“They aren’t here yet,” Geralt says.

You hum. 

The hush settles over you again. You can feel sleep settling over you, can feel your eyelids drooping. Geralt shifts, moves you so your drifting form is braced against his chest. You turn just enough to press your cheek against the muscled brawn of him.

He sighs. You can feel the play of his muscles as he sews.

“Her name was Astrid.”

“Hmm?”

“The seamstress who taught me. She saw that no one would take my coin.”

“Oh,” you breathe. You tuck yourself against him even more, wait to see if he’ll find it in himself to give you another piece of him. 

He does.

The winter wind twines around your home, shrieks like something ungodly, something bitter and dying, but neither of you hear it. 

You sit by the fire with your Witcher, and you listen to him mend.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from regina spektor's 'sellers of flowers' which is a bop.
> 
> i wrote a [post](https://owillofthewisps.tumblr.com/post/612355843493675008/yes-hello-im-thinking-about-geralt-sitting-by-the) a week or so about Geralt sewing and of course i couldn't leave it alone.
> 
> and then while i was thinking about Geralt sewing dreaminglestrade and i started talking about her Stardew fic ([River Bottom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17584646)) and all of its wintry glory. then i realized i haven't written anything set in winter (i think) and since it's my favorite season that had to change.
> 
> with apologies to anyone who actually sews. in this i am a woman of vagaries.


End file.
